Pat Rizzo, 73, now battling state over unemployment benefits

To get a sense where the American worker stands this Labor Day weekend, consider the story of Pasquale "Pat" Rizzo.

Rizzo, 73, of Boynton Beach, began working when he was 12, sweeping floors after school at a dressmaking factory in East Harlem for $1.50 a week.

He moved on to an Italian deli whose owner offered a few dollars more, joined the Navy, then spent 40 years in grocery stores and supermarkets in New York, a union man who worked his way up to owning a small chain of stores.

Last November, he got fired for the first time, from a $15-an-hour job in the outdoor garden department at the Lowe's in Coral Springs.

His offense: Smoking a cigarette in his car, then returning from his coffee break late. His car was in the store parking lot, which is considered company property. Employees aren't allowed to smoke on company property.

Lots of other workers take smoke breaks in their cars, Rizzo said.

He was the one who got fired.

He considered himself a hard worker, friendly with customers and co-workers, with one fault. If he felt a colleague disrespected him or others, he took it personally. This was the Old World ethos in him.

His family came from Corleone, Sicily (of "Godfather" fame), and he didn't take kindly to one co-worker who seemed to disappear for long stretches. He complained to a manager, perhaps a bit too loudly. Rizzo was the one who got written up. He was on a short leash.

His wife of 46 years, Barbara Ann, died in March 2010, and he was grieving. (Barbara Ann was famous, in a way. Her brother, Fred Fassert, wrote a song using her name. The Beach Boys made it a hit.)

Rizzo said his mind was a bit scrambled after his wife's death, just as it was after his son died a few years earlier. Sometimes, he lost track of time on breaks. He said he returned to work 5-10 minutes late, but no more.

"Going to work was like therapy," he said. "You get yourself out of the house. It gets your mind off things."

Rizzo calls himself "a young 73," so he lugged bags of mulch and cartons of muratic acid around with a smile, even when his back ached and it was broiling outside. He began working for Lowe's in Rockland County, N.Y., 10 years ago. He landed a job at the Coral Springs store when he moved to South Florida five years ago.

"I have no animosity toward Lowe's — they're a good company," Rizzo said. "The only problem I had was the ending."

He says his punishment doesn't fit the crime.

Rizzo filed for unemployment last fall. At first, he received notice the claim had been denied, because he had been fired for work-related misconduct.

While awaiting an appeal, Rizzo was told Lowe's had rescinded its denial. He started getting $239 a week in late November.

This summer, Rizzo got a notice saying his benefits were being halted and that he owed the state back pay for his entire claim of $7,387. The reason? Lowe's reinstated the denial, saying he was ineligible because he was fired for cause. Employers have up to a year to dispute claims.

"It doesn't seem fair," Rizzo said. "Why rescind the denial and then reinstate it?..It would have been easier to never have gotten anything."

Rizzo has consulted with an attorney and has filed an appeal with the state.

A Lowe's spokeswoman said she couldn't discuss individual cases because of confidentiality rules.

I accompanied Rizzo last week on his first visit back to his old store since his firing. Former colleagues greeted him with hugs, remarked how young and healthy he looked. "Everybody loves Pat," one clerk said.

"I'd love to have my job back," Rizzo said outside. "I want to work — but nobody wants a 73-year-old guy."

He gets by on Social Security and his grocers' union pension, but says he could use the extra money. "I have a mortgage, I have expenses," he said.

Rizzo told me about his early work days, when the countermen and customers at the deli had lit cigarettes dangling from their mouths. He recalled his union days, when workers had recourse and protections, when nickel-and-dime violations didn't merit career capital punishment.

This Labor Day, Rizzo seems a microcosm of the American workforce: tired, weakened, isolated. But still eager to work, and full of dignity.